


Daggers and Dittany

by whoaswetha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:17:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoaswetha/pseuds/whoaswetha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He glances down at his pale left arm, marred by the promise he was forced to make in order to keep his family safe. At first, it had been a genuine honor, but now, the very thought of it made his blood boil and his skin crawl.” Draco hates his Dark Mark and will do anything, no matter how insane or crazy it seems to get rid of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daggers and Dittany

Draco Malfoy inhaled sharply.

He was really going to do it.  

He glances down at his pale left arm, marred by the promise he was forced to make in order to keep his family safe. At first, it had been a genuine honor, but now, the very thought of it made his blood boil and his skin crawl.

_Had he really been so stupid and naïve?_

It had been a good two years since the war, since that promise was shattered. That tattoo left a sour taste in his mouth every time he looked at it. He did whatever he could to _not_ look at it. That tattoo was a source of all his insecurities, all his resentment, and everything he hated about himself could be summed up in that ugly Mark. Draco turned his nose up at it. He wanted it off of his skin, and he wanted to finally be able to _move on_ from that despicable part of his life.

Because didn’t everyone deserve a chance at happiness?

Draco picked up the wicked sharp blade he procured in Diagon Alley. Far away from the prying eyes of his mother, of course.

He took a deep breath and made sure that the door was locked, that the dittany was in place, and placed the blade at the cranium of that wretched skull.

Draco closed his eyes and fixed his grip on the handle of the dagger. He takes another deep breath and realizes how much this scared him. So many thoughts ran through his mind all at once. What if the dittany wasn’t enough? What if he passed out from the blood loss before he could apply the dittany? What if he _died_? He didn’t want to die. Or did he? Did it matter anymore?

Draco shakes his head and refocuses his concentration on the dagger.

The first slice is shallow and crooked. It’s not deep enough to draw blood but the skin parts easily, like sliding a knife through a warm stick of butter. He sees the life. Blood resembles life, doesn’t it? His fingers shake and it’s hard to keep a steady hand.

He presses the knife down with more pressure this time, with enough pressure to draw blood. The blood trickles down his pale, white arm and onto the array of towels that he set under him.

Soon, the room smells like blood. It’s a vicious scent, and it sets deep-rooted into his nostrils. More blood splashes as he cuts a rectangle around that abysmal tattoo. Tears sting the corners of his eyes. God, it _hurts_. Was it supposed to hurt this bad? He didn’t think it would.

The blood flows more thickly now, staining the pristine white towels with red. Blood, the symbol of life, the proof that he needed, to know that he was alive and well and still _breathing_.

There was a lot more blood than he originally expected. He starts to feel a little dizzy but refuses to acknowledge it. He’d be damned if he didn’t have this wretched tattoo off.

Now, it’s the hard part. Draco takes a deep breath and presses a wad of towels to stop the flow of the blood that gushes to the floor. He presses harder and hisses. Draco hardly notices the stream of tears that flow freely down his face.

He’s crying. Why is he crying? Isn’t this exactly what he wanted? He wanted this wretched tattoo off of him, he wanted it banished from his life.

Draco takes a deep breath and puts the blood stained towels down. The Mark is smeared with blood and the scent of blood hangs heavy in the air. It’s almost tangible. He’s about to bring the dagger down on his skin once more when the door bursts open with a crash. 


End file.
